For Every Closed Door
by Cardio Necrosis
Summary: "When did you find out Santa didn't exist?" Chase asked randomly, probably just reaching for any excuse to talk; it was the type of topic one only brought up when sheer boredom reared its ugly head enough to implode several people at once.


**NOTE:** This is a Christmas fic-sorry about it being late, but I was busy. Much thanks to theletterv for his help with typos.

For Every Closed Door

Silence surrounded him, pulling him deeper into a state of monotonous boredom. He heard each member of his team breathe individually. Foreman breathed with his nose, lips closed tightly as he stared at the files in front of him, his eyes hardly moving with the text as he slowly turned each page; Taub's breath was a little louder going out than going in, and he stared at one page far longer than needed to actually read it, and he occasionally let out a scoff; Masters let out a quiet, delicate clearing of the throat every few minutes that would have been inaudible if not for the complete silence; Chase was the quietest of them all. Added to that, the sounds of the folders and papers and files swishing against each other and the table added to the deafening silence, and it wasn't long before House's ears started to ring, the faraway, tiny sounds of tinnitus making his head feel stuffy and eyes pulse slightly to the beat of his heart; he could feel a headache coming.

Somewhere, a child was crying because she didn't get the doll she wanted; a boy was laughing with glee as he shot his sister with his new Nerf gun; mother and fathers everywhere tossed back Tylenol to beat back the headaches of in-laws and screaming children; somewhere, there was the sound of wrapping paper being ripped in half, the swoosh and tear of it like music in the recipient's ears. Snow fell, swirling and bobbing like smooth, carefree ballerinas in the wind, and piled onto the ground, like a soft blanket of chill for all the girls and boys to roll around in and build snowmen.

It was Christmas, and what was House doing?

Looking for a patient.

Not because he wanted to (as if that would happen) and not because he was bored (more likely) but because Cuddy demanded that he take on more patients than he had been for, oh, the entirety of his employment. He was also sure it was punishment, although she would never admit it-although the distinct lack of sex for the past week supported his theory. She'd demanded he take on a patient that day, and thrust a pile of files in his arms, saying that he'd find at least one interesting patient, and if he didn't, she'd pick one for him.

Masters had attempted to convince him to take a case eight times, and after he'd very rudely and loudly shot her down, she'd remained quiet since; none of the others had bothered, because they knew what he was looking for, as did he. Nothing seemed to challenge him enough; everything fell short of interesting. Boring symptoms, obvious diagnoses, cases very obviously meant for other departments . . .

She was angry, and what was he doing? Playing right into her hands, because standing his ground the last time had accomplished absolutely nothing.

Chase let out a loud scoff, which surprised House as he'd been the quietest. He shut the folder he'd been reading a bit more forcefully than necessary and huffed. Everybody stared at him, and he eventually seemed to realize it because he explained; "This is stupid. Nothing in here is interesting, and nothing here can't be solved by anyone else."

"Everything and can," Masters corrected, like a pretentious schoolgirl eager to show she was smarter than her teacher. Or perhaps looking for a pat on the head. Perhaps a mixture of both.

"So, you never went on second dates in high school, did you?" House pointed out-perhaps that was cruel, but since when did he care?

"It's Christmas, and what're we stuck here doing?"

"Our jobs," Taub answered, but his tone lacked any actual concern.

Chase snorted. "Hardly. Cuddy wouldn't have sent more than half of these our way a few months ago. I mean, honestly, look at this one-runny nose, high fever, bloody stool and, what, sneezing? Really?"

"I hate to say this, but-wait, no I don't. Chase is right. None of these are at our standard," Taub admitted with a sigh.

"These people are sick. Just because they're not . . . hallucinating or vomiting blood and . . . screaming obscenities doesn't mean they don't need help."

"No, but there's someone out there who really is and won't get House to cure them because we're stuck here reading this," Chase stated. He wasn't rude, snappy, acidic, or in any way angry sounding. It was a fact, and House knew it, just as everyone (with perhaps the exception of Masters) else did.

Foreman nodded. "I'm going to go find someone more interesting."

"I'll come with you," Taub said, and the two of them left, eager to leave-not that House blamed them.

He contemplated joining them, then looked down at the file he'd left open, starting over. Something about blurred vision.

The silence overcame him again, and the pulsing in his eyes intensified, moving to his temple. He read the symptom 'blurred vision' a fourth time before he sighed and shut the folder and picked up the next one, doubting that it would be any more interesting than the last. Considering he'd been forced to actually do paperwork last week for hours and he'd had to baby-sit Rachel _again_ the night before the tedious paperwork . . .

Great, the headache was dripping into his stomach, making him nauseous.

"When did you find out Santa didn't exist?" Chase asked randomly, probably just reaching for any excuse to talk; it was the type of topic one only brought up when sheer boredom reared its ugly head enough to implode several people at once.

"He doesn't?" House gasped. "And here I was, thinking I didn't get that choo-choo 'cause I was such a naughty boy."

Chase continued as if House hadn't talked at all. "I was-"

"Seriously? I just referred to myself as a naughty boy and you didn't think of a single thing to say?"

Chase blinked. "I wasn't there. If you want a quick recap, call Wilson. That better?"

House wavered his palm in a so-so gesture. "It was lacking."

"I was nine," Masters answered, looking at both House and Chase almost perkily. Or perhaps she wasn't perky, but anything that moved quicker than a snail's pace seemed perky at the moment. "My mother sat me down with a cup of hot chocolate and broke it to me as gently as she could."

"Were you sad?" Chase asked.

She shook her head, and picked the next file. "Not at all." She opened it with a slight flourish. "I think I always knew, but her telling me just cemented it. It was then I started to really question the entire idea of faith in something you can't see or feel. I mean, why is it silly to believe in Santa, but not God? And if Santa isn't real, why would God be? It wasn't anything I hadn't thought before." She shrugged with all the air of a smug cheerleader answering one of her friends when she turned down the captain of the chess team.

"I cried," Chase admitted without any shame.

"Why?" Masters asked, sounding either confused or disgusted.

He shrugged. "I dunno. It was like finding out a close friend had died."

"How can he be a friend if you never met him-well, except to sit on his lap."

"I don't know. He never expected anything-he just gave. You know? Didn't matter what you did, you always got a gift at the end of the year."

"As long as you're not on his naughty list," Masters pointed out. "It's not about unconditional love-it's completely conditional."

Chase scoffed. "Yeah right. I don't know any kid who ever got a lump of coal, no matter how many windows he broke or times he argued with his mum. He cared about you no matter what you did or who you were or what you looked like. Then you find out he doesn't exist, and from that moment on you are forced to accept the fact that people just don't . . . love unconditionally. What isn't sad about that? It's . . . really the beginning of . . . Well, the end of your innocence."

"I don't know about you, but sitting on Santa's lap was the end of mine," House joked, but only to cover the fact something Chase had said hit him in the chest-not that he would ever say that aloud. Ever. Instead, he stared at the files on the tabletop, and the sinking feeling intensified.

He read through the typical symptoms and sighed; it was true, though. He'd known it the moment Cuddy left his apartment, their first morning together-she would eventually leave him. As much as she promised she loved him for who he was, that hadn't stopped her from going to great lengths to change him anyway. Punishing him for doing things he had always done; making him doing things he hated simply over a disagreement . . . There would come a time when he would break the boundaries and she couldn't love him anymore. He knew it, and yet he did paperwork, looked over cases, and watched Rachel, because . . .

Actually, he didn't even know anymore.

"What about you?" Masters asked and he stared at her in confusion. What was she talking about? "When did you find out Santa wasn't real?"

"I never believed in Santa," he stated.

"Oh come on, House. You want us to believe that at three you were such a genius that you figured it out?" Chase deadpanned.

House shrugged. "My parents never told me he existed. They both decided that it was pointless-they wanted me to place my faith in God, not fat child molesters."

"I'm not going to tell my kids about Santa," Masters admitted, almost-no, no it was definitely haughtily. "Believing in Santa is just forced practice in believing in things you can't see or touch or feel. It's just them conditioning you to believe in a God that doesn't exist. I don't see how lying to your kids can help them at all."

"It's not about lying to your kids-it's about getting them to think outside the box, and using imagination, and caring and giving-"

"Santa is a metaphor for God, and that's it. You get rewarded if you're good, and you get a lump of coal to _burn_ if you're bad-just like God. Rewarded if you're good, burned if you're bad. He supposedly loves unconditionally too, until you cross the boundaries and-"

"Push until it breaks," House muttered, effectively quieting her.

He bit down on his lip and focused on the table, scattered with files and papers. Realizing after a few seconds that it was still completely silent, he stared at the two of them. Chase had his brows furrowed and head tilted curiously, an expression he hadn't seen for years, back when Chase was still trying to figure him out. Masters was busy blushing like she'd just been scolded by the headmaster, ducking her head so her ridiculous bangs obscured her eyes, and House scoffed back a sigh.

He stood out of his chair and started limping purposefully out of the room. "Find me a patient," he ordered before he pushed through the door and exited.

His unbalanced gait led him straight to Wilson's office, and although his office was much smaller than the room he just vacated, he felt as if he had more room to breathe; to think.

Wilson wasn't at his desk, despite there being paperwork scattered across it in his somehow haphazard-yet-organized manner. Instead, Wilson sat in his couch, the minimal amount of blinds drawn, slouched slightly with his head tilted so it rested against the back of the couch, and he pinched the bridge of his nose.

House only hesitated for a second, long enough to gauge Wilson's obvious distress, then walked right over to the couch and plopped beside him. "Paperwork headache too, huh?" he aired, knocking his knee against Wilson's as a greeting.

He stopped pinching the bridge of his nose, but otherwise didn't move. He tilted his head to look at House, then sighed. He gestured towards his desk, and House noticed his tie was slightly askew. "I can't give everyone Christmas off, House. And so after continually denying two of them a day off because I simply can't, they decided not to show anyway-without calling, mind you. So, someone has to cover their shifts, and nobody who has today off wants to, so guess who had to . . ." Wilson stared at House, who blinked impassively, and then he turned his head so he was staring at the ceiling. "Yes, Wilson, why _are_ you telling House this? I'm sure he genuinely cares."

"You know, talking to yourself is a sign of insanity. Maybe you should get yourself checked out."

"Insanity is a requirement to spend time with you, House. Talking in third person is hardly going to matter at this point."

House felt himself start to smile, so he looked over at the desk and at the scattered paperwork so Wilson wouldn't see it. He thought back to the mess of files on the table in the differential room, and sighed. All those useless symptoms danced in his head, Cuddy demanding he pick something, his idiot team babbling about stupid mythological fat men . . . It was barely past eleven, and he was already looking forward to going home.

"Chase asked me when I stopped believing in Santa."

Wilson waited a few glorious seconds. "Well . . . ?" he urged on, like House knew he would.

"I never believed."

"Congratulations, neither did I," Wilson quipped, then sat up properly.

House spread his legs more so he could rest his elbows on them comfortably, rolling his cane in his palms. His knee was pressed insistently against Wilson's-normally they only meet briefly before one or both of them moved it away, but he didn't bother moving it now. He was aware of the contact however, so he was certain Wilson was as well.

House turned to look at Wilson for a second, before looking down at the carpet. "They didn't tell me because they wanted me to believe in God."

"Job well done." Glibness was refreshing, but it wasn't enough. He needed more, and he knew Wilson understood. "So, do you wish your parents would have told you about Santa? Or are you bothered by the idea that your core belief that God doesn't exist is possibly hinged solely on the fact you didn't stay up at night, waiting for a stranger to slide down your chimney?"

House scoffed, then stopped rolling his cane between his hands. Furrowing his brows, he shook his head. "What my parents told me about Santa has nothing to do with my Atheism. Though, if you ask Masters, Santa is just preparing your kids to be good little Christians." He rolled his eyes and scoffed.

"You disagree? I can see her point."

House turned to look at Wilson, raising an eyebrow. "Do you think that I'd be a God-fearing Christian if my parents told me Santa was real?"

"No, of course not. But something about this is bothering you. So if it wasn't that . . ."

House stopped slouching forward, and leaned back against the couch, shoulder brushing Wilson's briefly. It had been a conscious effort not to move his knee so that it would still be touching Wilson's; something that he didn't really want to get into right now. He was with Cuddy. He wasn't single. Yet he had to touch Wilson; feel him beside him, more that ever it seemed. He needed reassurance. He needed something Cuddy wasn't giving him.

"Chase has a different theory. Santa isn't God. Santa is sappy, unconditional, sparkles-and-rainbows love, full to the brim with unicorns and happiness." He snorted and slouched against the back of the couch, staring at Wilson, who was sitting properly, so his head was higher than House's, which was strange as House was used to being taller. Although he'd stilled his cane, his hand still clenched tightly around it when he saw ideas whirring behind Wilson's eyes; figuring out what House didn't want to figure out himself, despite already piecing it together.

Wilson's expression softened somehow and House had to avert his eyes.

"So unconditional love doesn't exist."

House didn't want to say anything, but he couldn't help the small nod and the; "Yeah," that followed. He knew Wilson was still looking at him, although he was focusing on the head of his cane.

Wilson didn't ask for him to explain further, and he had no real reason to do so. He didn't have to say anything if he didn't want to, but he found himself compelled to talk, anyway.

"I didn't want to do anything for Hanukkah," he began, hating how raspy and quiet he sounded; like some vulnerable teen who just got dumped. He cleared his throat and sat up straighter, forcing the wobble out of his voice. "She made me, of course. I get it. She's Jewish, whatever. But do you think she's doing anything for Christmas? No. In fact, she's punishing me for suggesting that we . . . I just wanted to go out."

When Wilson didn't say anything, he looked at him, and Wilson looked much like a kicked puppy. House cleared his throat. "It's not a big deal, Wilson. Stop with the puppy eyes."

"It means something to you. Christmas."

House shrugged one shoulder. "It means something to everyone."

"No, it _means_ something to you. Something important."

House slouched even more, and his grip slackened; the cane rolled to the floor, thudding gently. He tried to shrug again, but he couldn't. He cleared his throat, and blinked away the slight burn in his eyes. "It was the only time my dad and I ever got along," he admitted.

"You never told me that," Wilson said hesitantly.

House sat up straighter, his knee pulling away from Wilson's, and in that instant he felt almost at a loss. He'd been relying on it without realizing it. The loss of contact startled him and he forgot what he'd been about to say. He stared at Wilson, opened his mouth, and nothing came out.

Whether it was purposeful or not, Wilson pressed their knees together. His expression showed no hints to it being intentional, but it was too convenient and just what he needed for it to be an accident.

"I didn't think there was anything to tell. I didn't realize I cared until I . . ." He cleared his throat and tried to think of the least emotional way he could convey what he was thinking. "I've never not celebrated. I've never been . . . unable to," he said carefully. "You're Jewish and you've never . . . You've always celebrated it with me."

"I'm not the best Jew, House," he admitted sheepishly, but there was an undercurrent of something affectionate and soft; something he didn't usually associate with sheepishness. He finally looked away from House; focusing at the point where their knees touched. He didn't freeze or jolt away; he did absolutely nothing. "Christmas isn't about Jesus."

"Uh, I think about three billion Christians beg to differ."

Wilson looked at him again, but it wasn't the soft, understanding expression; he raised his eyebrows and lowered his chin. "Show me a Christian who only cares for Jesus' birth, and I'll show you a Christian who'd still be angry if she didn't get a present." The 'duh' expression switched, and he looked tentatively caring again. "It's not about . . . religion. Religion is just politics. It's about . . . Well, hate to break it to you House, but Chase was right."

"All right, I think maybe my lapse in judgment has passed. No more Hallmark moments." He moved to leave the couch, and Wilson put his hand on his thigh so House sat back down, although there was nothing forceful about Wilson's hand on him.

He didn't look at Wilson; just stared at the hand on his thigh. "Listen to me," Wilson demanded, although quietly. "People don't celebrate Christmas if they have nobody. It's about love, and . . . Well, Hallmark moments. It shouldn't be about obligation. You give because you want to."

House's brain shifted, rearranging pieces until it clicked, and he gaped at Wilson.

"What?" Wilson asked.

House took a few steps back in his mind; now wasn't the time for that. He scoffed. "Says the guy who gave his last wife a gift card and skipped holiday dinners."

"It became an obligation, just like Hanukkah felt to you-it wasn't what you wanted to do, but you did it anyway because you _had_ to."

"Gee, thanks."

Wilson eyes flew open comically wide and he waved his hands about in an odd gesture. "Oh, nonono. No. It was never an obligation with you, and you know that. It's not about the presents-it's about y-_people. _It's about the person, or people, that you're . . . letting me babble on because you think it's funny," he stated and House let forth a chuckle.

"Hey, you're the one who started going on about love and cancer-curing kittens."

"You're the one who brought it up," Wilson pointed out with a haughty expression that rivalled the one Masters put on a few minutes ago.

House scoffed. "No, I didn't. I was merely making a point-revealing my history and you had to go and screw it all up with emotions." He waved Wilson away like an irksome fly, but Wilson did not obey.

His scoff sounded more like a laugh, and he pushed House's shoulder in a friendly manner. "Well, cancer-curing kittens are my speciality, being an oncologist."

"And a woman," House added with a gentle shove of his own.

"Says someone with a shoe obsession." It was Wilson's turn to push him, but he didn't. Instead he pressed his knee against House's a bit more firmly, and House swallowed the lump in his throat. Technically, if he wanted, he could convince himself that knees touching was completely innocent-but he knew it wasn't. If he were truly happy with Cuddy, he wouldn't be seeking Wilson's touch in seemingly everything he did. He would have gone to her with his troubles and told her about his father; not Wilson.

Perhaps not. He hadn't even really thought about why Christmas mattered until he couldn't have one and he doubted explaining himself would have changed her mind. Explaining himself so far had done nothing for their relationship. She refused to budge, no matter his reasons, and when he explained why, she still refused to allow him anything. It didn't matter what he said; Cuddy got her way, or nobody did.

"So, speaking of gifts, where's mine?"

"On your desk. You'd know that, if you'd actually gone into your office."

Joking about the fact he didn't do his job was familiar, but was pretty much pointless now since he'd been doing it for awhile. It only served to remind him how much dating Cuddy had changed him-even just the little things were started to add up and evolve into something larger. He was doing paperwork, apologizing, finding cases . . .

He bit down on his lip and looked at the floor again, furrowing his brows. Hanukkah had been an obligation to him, and Cuddy . . . Well, she wasn't even going to bother with Christmas. Going with Wilson's theory, which House knew was correct, then it meant . . . Well, everything House had anticipated when the first decided to actually try and date.

"So what you're saying is that Cuddy's become an obligation to me and she doesn't love me." Saying it out loud was easier than he'd thought it would be, but it didn't bring him joy, just the feeling of something being lifted off his shoulders. He turned his head to look at Wilson, who was retuning the look.

After a short but meaningful silence, Wilson cleared his throat delicately. "No, that-that wasn't what I . . . intended; no."

"But it's true."

Wilson looked away from House and rubbed the back of his neck. "It's . . . it's not what I was saying," he reiterated, but he didn't deny that House was right, which was the same thing as agreeing with him.

House watched as Wilson kept rubbing his neck, refusing to look at House as apparently the floor was more interesting, and swallowed the lump in his throat. "No, what you said is that you're in love with me."

Wilson's hand stopped moving but didn't drop as he turned his head to House a second or so later than he probably should've, eyes wide and mouth barely open. He blinked quickly a few times, and his adam's apple bobbed. He looked away and his hand relocated in his lap, then he cleared his throat. "I need to get a start on my mountains of paperwork," he said, then moved to stand.

House grabbed his arm to keep him from moving, but Wilson didn't stop so he tugged against the resistance. He'd pulled harder than he'd intended and Wilson toppled over. House instinctively moved to shield his damaged thigh, and Wilson attempted to catch himself by slamming his hand against the back of the couch, but all that did was slide it back the last two or three inches until it hit the wall, so the any balance he might have gained from the action disappeared and he tumbled into House, his shoulder in House's ribcage for a second before his footing on the floor gave way entirely and he somehow smashed his forehead against House's collarbone, then caught himself by slamming his right hand down on House's left thigh.

Despite swearing loudly and the sharp, bruising pain in his leg, he did find room in his brain to consider himself lucky he'd hit his left thigh, not his right.

"What the hell, House?" Wilson grumbled, tilting his head up to glare at him.

House took a moment to appreciate how hilarious it would be if someone walked in at that moment. Wilson had on hand on his thigh, the other resting on the back of the couch, head a few inches above his crotch . . . House legs were spread and he was slouching slightly . . .

"Merry Christmas indeed," House quipped and waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"You're an ass," Wilson murmured, eyes flicking away from House immediately as he pushed upward to stand.

House grabbed Wilson's tie to prevent him from standing fully, though. "House, stop."

"Stop what?" he asked, tugging a little on the end of the tie, Wilson's hand still planted on the back of the couch, his arm brushing House's ear.

Wilson cleared his throat and his eyes focused on something to the left. "Mocking me," he managed in a quiet voice.

House let out a small chuckle. "I'm trying to kiss you, moron."

If eyes could get whiplash, Wilson's definitely would have, catching onto House's. His eyebrows shot up and he opened his mouth to say something, then he frowned and his brows lowered. "Are you-" he began, voice slightly higher-pitched and little croaky. He cleared his throat. "Are you just kidding?"

House shook his head and squeezed the end of the tie tighter, forcing Wilson head a little closer, but not close enough. "No," he said so quietly he wondered if maybe he'd just said it in his head.

"You better not be," he whispered, and moved the last six inches to brush their lips together.

House closed his eyes and stopped clutching Wilson's tie, which would probably need ironing when he got home, and pushed forward as Wilson moved like he was going to pull away. He licked Wilson's bottom lip, and he pulled away. House opened his eyes to ask why he'd done that, but stopped when he saw Wilson's expression. His eyes were still closed, but his brows were furrowed as if in concentration and he was biting down on his lip.

"Wilson?"

Wilson dove in, catching House completely by surprise. Pretending that he hadn't eeped in shock, he swallowed Wilson's suddenly insistent tongue, and sucked in a gasp of his own when he felt Wilson's fingers at his jaw.

He held Wilson's waist, clutching at the fabric of his shirt, and pulled Wilson towards him; manoeuvring him into his lap, so that Wilson was straddling him, belt-buckle pressing into House's navel. With a slightly undignified moan, House clutched at the back of his belt and pulled him closer, feeling the scrap of the buckle through his shirt. Wilson pulled away and pressed their foreheads together, breathing in a little heavily, and House felt inexplicably and suddenly dizzy. Wilson's eyes opened belatedly, a wet shine to them, and moved across House's face like he was searching it as his hands went from his jaw to his shoulder. After a second of staring, he moved in unhurriedly, bringing in House's bottom lip just as slowly. They opened their mouths, tongues meeting in the middle, and then parting before sliding open again. Wilson pushed further; plundering his mouth, tentativeness disappearing entirely when he rocked against him, denim scraping a tiny sliver of skin where House's shirt had bunched up.

Wilson made a noise that had to be illegal, and the door opened.

"House, we heard a no-oh," came the obtrusive, annoying accent House associated with Chase, and he immediately plotted bombing the entire continent of Australia.

Wilson pulled his head away with a strange and embarrassing sucking noise and twisted his head to stare at Chase and Masters, both standing in the doorway.

Masters held a folder in her hands, but whether or not it was a case she'd intended to give House seemed to be the very last thing on anyone's mind. Chase looked like he'd just walked in on parents; Masters looked as if she'd never seen two people kissing before.

After a second, her O-shaped mouth snapped shut and she turned on her heel, clicking quickly away, and Chase cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'll just . . . Sorry," he muttered, reaching around the door to lock it, smiled briefly and awkwardly in their direction, then closed it.

House chuckled and dropped his head against the back of the couch. "She's totally going to blab to Cuddy."

"Oh. Oh, House, I didn't-sorry," he spluttered, then moved to get off of House.

House, whose hands were already on Wilson's waist, held him tighter so he wouldn't leave. Wilson froze, but he didn't settle on House either. House bit down on his lip, looked Wilson over-his tense posture, as if he was getting ready to push off at any moment, and at his fearful expression. He traced a circle on his side with his thumb, met Wilson's eyes, and sighed. "It's okay," he finally said.

"But . . . she's going to tell Cuddy, and-"

"It just saves me the trip."

Silence swelled, but it wasn't so much as awkward as it was meaningful. Wilson stared at him suspiciously, then slowly settled on his thighs again, hands on House's shoulders and thumbs tracing patterns on the base of his neck. "Are you sure?" he inquired tentatively, tilting his chin down but raising his eyebrows.

Honestly, he was a little upset, of course, but . . . Well, not as much as he should've been. "I'm sure."

Wilson blushed and looked downward, although he was grinning wide enough that even ducking his head couldn't hide the smile. House was a little confused and uncertain about doing whatever it was they were deciding to do, but he did know one thing for sure: no matter what happened, it would be a far better prospect than this disaster that was his relationship with Cuddy. He brushed some hair away from Wilson's ear and Wilson leaned against his palm slightly. House smiled because Wilson was still looking downward and wouldn't know.

"Wilson?"

Wilson looked upward, met his eyes, and seemed a little dazed. "Hmm?"

"Happy Hanukkah."

Wilson chuckled and pressed his forehead against House's. "You're a few weeks late, House."

He shrugged. "I've never been a punctual person."

Wilson tilted his head, and searched House face again. "No, you really haven't," he agreed, but with a heaviness to his words that implied he was talking about more than just holidays.

House nodded to show he understood, then he pressed his mouth to Wilson's lightly.

"Hanukkah traditionally runs for eight days, you know."

House grinned and raised one eyebrow. "Hmm, well I can think of at least one thing that'll be fun to unwrap . . ."

Wilson snorted back a chuckle, and the doorknob jiggled. "Wilson?" Cuddy called, then started knocking impatiently.

"But first . . ." he murmured just as Wilson got off of him, smoothing down his shirt.

Wilson started over to the door as House stood, bending down to retrieve his cane from the carpet. Wilson hesitated in front of the door, and Cuddy called their names again before jiggling the handle. Wilson looked over his shoulder. "Are you sure about this?" he asked again.

"Positive," he answered.

And with a smile, Wilson unlocked the door.


End file.
